I WALK THROUGH MY front door with a spring in my step. The hard part of the visit is over. Now it’s time to enjoy the rest. We have the whole day waiting for us, and the only difficulty is choosing what’s next when everything sounds wonderful. We could hang out at my place, or we could go to the park and read in the sun. Or I wonder if Patrick would want to hike in the desert hills. I latch on to this final idea—the perfect combination of the old and new us.
In the living room, Robbie’s playing video games on the couch, soldiers exploding on screen while he frenetically rounds corners. Dad is seated at the dining table, slowly eating a sandwich and half watching the TV. It’s not the first time I’ve noticed his curiosity about Call of Duty, although I’m pretty sure he’s too scared to pick up the controller himself.
“So I’m going to sleep in my room tonight,” Robbie declares.
He’s not even looking up, his eyes fixed intently on the game. I notice he’s not wearing his headset like he does when he’s doing one of his three-hour bro dates where he and his friends kill strangers online.
With my keys in my hand, I pause near the doorway. Patrick lingers amiably next to me, not picking up on my sudden suspicion. But I know Robbie well enough to understand there’s something unnervingly specific in his remark.
“Robbie,” Dad says, pulled from watching my brother’s virtual warfare. “We talked about this. You said Patrick could sleep in your room. It’s rude to go back on your offer.”
I watch my brother, my mind working. While I’m not sure where Robbie’s going with this, I’m certain it’s nowhere good.
“Yeah,” he replies reasonably. “But that was before I knew Patrick would be sleeping in Siena’s room. I don’t see the point in me sleeping on the couch when my bed is empty.”
There it is. Robbie’s play here crashes over me like a cascade of cold water. I guess he still resents that my boyfriend is allowed to stay over, even boot him out of his room, while his girlfriend doesn’t get to come to Thanksgiving. Nevertheless, this retaliation is brutal.
I’m conscious my dad’s focus has shifted to me, and I carefully control my expression even though I’d like nothing better than to rip his controller out of his hands and flush it down the toilet. Patrick puts his hands in his pockets, suddenly looking very interested in the credenza near the door.
“Robbie, that’s not true,” I say diplomatically. “Patrick slept in your room. Remember how I woke him up in there at ten?” I ask, proud of myself. I’m mustering rhetorical precision I never managed in Model UN. I’m not technically lying, either. While Patrick and I took the opportunity to sleep in the same bed together—which felt almost as real and intimate as sex itself—we weren’t careless. Patrick set a quiet alarm on his phone for six a.m., then stole into Robbie’s room before my family woke up.
My brother pauses his game. Instantly, I realize my question was the wrong move. When he faces us, looking innocently curious, I glare. “Then how come,” he starts, “when I woke up in the middle of the night and realized my phone was dead, I went into my room for my charger and found the bed empty?”
Next to me, Patrick physically wilts. To his credit, he fights through what I know is immense mortification to face my dad. “I’m so sorry,” he says.
I’m grateful Patrick spoke up, because I’m incapable of doing so. The specific wrath reserved for siblings has locked my jaw.
My dad lets out a long-suffering sigh, and I fire Robbie a glare that promises payback for putting us all in a position no one is enjoying. With Mom at work, Dad’s the one left to deal with this particular parenting issue, despite how much he’d obviously rather be watching Call of Duty. In fact, there’s probably very little he wouldn’t prefer doing. There’s very little I wouldn’t prefer doing, either.
“Siena,” my dad finally forces out, “can I talk to you privately?”
I nod, then follow him like a prisoner to execution toward my room, hearing what is unmistakably the sound of a pillow hitting someone and Patrick saying, “What the hell, man?”
I step into my room, where I sit down on my bed. Immediately, I hate the choice. It feels uncomfortably symbolic of the conversation I know is coming. Dad remains standing, leaning his elbow on the dresser with the posed stiffness of a department store mannequin. We’ve always had a pretty good relationship, founded on the mutual understanding we have nearly nothing in common. Right now, I feel those differences stretching the seams of what we have to get through.
“Did you have sex?” Dad asks clumsily.
I close my eyes from the fast Band-Aid sting of the question. While it’s horrific to hear, I’m actually grateful he came out with it directly. Maybe it’ll shorten the length of this unendurable discussion.
In the same spirit, I reply, “Yes.”
Dad pauses. “Did you use protection?” The question comes out in a weird, struggling monotone.
“Yes.”
He nods, looking faintly reassured. “Would you like to go on the pill? You know condoms have a small failure rate.” He’s saying these sentences like he’s reading them from a PowerPoint presentation he really doesn’t want to be giving.
“Oh, um.” I blink, feeling the first flicker of something besides wanting the conversation to be over. “Yeah. I guess I would,” I say. I hadn’t really considered the idea. Up until last night, I’d been so focused on having sex for the first time, I hadn’t given much thought to how to do it routinely.
“I’ll call your doctor. Set something up,” Dad says, seizing on having something concrete to do. He shifts, nearly knocking over the framed photo on my dresser. It’s of Patrick and me from when we went to Castles N’ Coasters, the mini golf course in the background, Patrick’s arms around my waist. With unnecessary precision, Dad returns the photo to its place. “Do you have any questions?” he asks.
“Nope,” I say with urgency. Dad seems to relax, which makes me straighten up, itching to start for the hallway. “Is that all?”
Dad frowns. “Did I miss something? I’ve never had The Talk before.” He says the talk like it’s a proper noun, which makes me smile involuntarily, imagining some manual parents have stuffed under their mattresses with the title in block letters.
“No. You did great,” I reassure him. “Just”—I start cautiously, my heartstrings pulling me—“you’re not mad that Patrick slept in here last night?”
The stiffness leaving his expression, Dad moves from the dresser to sit in my desk chair closer to me. “I’m not mad,” he says earnestly, with unmissable kindness. “You could have told us and spared poor Robbie, but, well, your mom and I have known this was inevitable. We’re glad it was with Patrick.”
While half of me is dying from embarrassment, the other half doesn’t hate hearing him say it.
“You know, I’m proud of you,” he goes on. “Of the relationship you two have. It’s really remarkable to witness your kid growing up and giving her heart to someone who deserves it.” When he stops himself, staring past my blinds into the white sunlight outside my window, I have the impression it’s because he might cry if he continues. I feel myself smile a wobbly smile, touched. Dad stands up, clearing his throat. “Be respectful of Robbie, though, okay?” he says seriously, like we’ve crossed over the conversation onto firmer ground. “It’s a small house. We don’t need him getting any ideas.”
I don’t fight my laugh. Dad permits himself a small smile. In fact, this would be my opportunity to throw Robbie under the bus the way he did me by revealing I’m not the only sibling who’s had sex. I decide to be the bigger person and hold my tongue. Robbie will probably never know to thank me, but whatever.
When we reemerge from the hallway into the living room, we find Patrick sitting on the couch with Robbie. Now both of them have controllers. When Patrick sees my dad, his demeaner changes instantly. He pauses the game, cutting off the cacophony of video-game gunfire, and stands up in the silent living room.
“Robbie, you can have your room back,” my dad pronounces.
Patrick nods, looking solemn. I wonder if everyone notices the small way he slumps, or if it’s only me. “I understand,” he says. “I can call Garret or Joe. I’m sure I can stay—”
Dad holds up his hand, interrupting Patrick. “You two are practically adults. You can share a bedroom for a week.”
Patrick’s eyes fly to me. Grinning, I watch the relief on his face—the feeling of having his sentence commuted—change into excitement mirroring mine. We’ll have a whole week sleeping in the same bed. Of Patrick’s smell when I wake up, of resting my head on his chest, hearing his heartbeat while I drift off.
“Wait, really?” Robbie’s voice interrupts my imaginings. “Does that mean I can invite Erica for a sleepover, too?”
“Absolutely not,” Dad says, unsurprisingly, considering Erica is Robbie’s girlfriend of, like, two weeks.
Robbie drops his controller onto the couch. “That’s totally unfair!”
“Robert,” Dad’s tone turns steely. “When you’ve been with the same girl for three years, you’re welcome to have her spend the night.”
I laugh, earning a dirty look from Robbie. Shrugging, I shoot him raised eyebrows and a silent You deserve this.
Slouching into the cushions, Robbie returns his gaze to Dad. “That would mean having the same girlfriend for all of high school,” he says plaintively, like Dad’s requesting the equivalent of winning the Nobel Prize.
“Yes,” Dad replies, satisfied. “Yes, it would.”
“That’s impossible,” Robbie says in defeat.
While he reaches for his controller, I catch Patrick’s eye, and some private joy passes in our shared look. Though Robbie was being flippant, the ring of truth in his words fills my chest. What we have does feel impossible. Not climbing-Mount-Everest, winning-the-lottery impossible. The impossible of someone knowing you as well as you know yourself, of fitting more into one week than into three months. The impossible of seeing the same sunrise over and over.
My dad was right. It is worth being proud of.